


Seven Days of Lancer and Shirou

by goldenteaset



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/stay night (Visual Novel)
Genre: (But Shirou doesn't know he's pining yet), Birthday Sex, Blood Drinking, Cameos, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Fivesome - M/M/M/M/M, Gae Bolg as Red String of Fate, Language of Flowers, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Mana Transfer, Multiple Selves, Mutual Pining, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:01:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23621257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenteaset/pseuds/goldenteaset
Summary: Shirou gawks at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Do you want to be fired?!”“Nah,” Lancer says cheerily, and the wink that follows seems to travel in slow motion along the curve of his lashes. “I like seeing you too much for that."“Oh. I guess…I like seeing you too."For some reason Lancer’s eyes go wide, like he’s discovered something precious.A collection of oneshots for Yarishi Week 2020 on twitter.
Relationships: Cú Chulainn | Lancer/Emiya Shirou
Comments: 37
Kudos: 104





	1. Sunday: Odd Jobs

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yarishi Week everyone! :D Hopefully I'll be able to post fic for all seven days, but even if I don't, it'll be fun to try. Expect a lot of canon divergence AUs or otherwise vague timelines, as usual! XD
> 
> The twitter page for Yarishi Week 2020 is here: https://twitter.com/Yarishi2020
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Fate/stay night.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shirou and Lancer accidentally create a ritual.
> 
> Rating: T

“Lancer. Changed jobs again?”

The first time Shirou says it, it’s out of surprise. Somehow he expected Lancer to stick with the flower shop until the bitter end. Of course, that was just based on an _assumption_ Shirou had about him, not something concrete. This could be an everyday occurrence.

So he remarks on it, Lancer laughs it off, and the groceries are bought and carried home.

…Yeah. Nothing special. Just something small to remark on.

\---

Which is why when Shirou next says those four words, he can’t help but second-guess himself. After all, isn’t that a bit rude? Surely Lancer’s heard this a hundred times today—

—And yet.

“Funny thing, lad,” Lancer says, leaning a muscular arm against the counter of the fish stand, “you’re the only one who noticed.”

“Seriously?” That _can’t_ be right. And yet, when Shirou looks at the pleased glow in Lancer’s crimson eyes…he believes it. “Well…you’re welcome, I suppose.”

Lancer laughs and gifts him a muscle-creaking clap on the back. Was his hand always this warm? Even through Shirou’s jacket, it feels like rays of sun against his skin. “I’ll look forward to hearing it again!”

Shirou gawks at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Do you _want_ to be fired?!”

“Nah,” Lancer says cheerily, and the wink that follows seems to travel in slow motion along the curve of his lashes. “I like seeing you too much for that.”

“Oh. I guess…I like seeing you too.”

For some reason Lancer’s eyes go wide, like he’s discovered something precious.

There’s only one thing Shirou can do now: pick a fish gleaming like a jewel behind the glass case— _any_ fish—and walk briskly out the door like he understands Lancer perfectly. _He likes…_ seeing _me? Why? I’m not a girl, and I don’t want to fight him._

Since it’s something Shirou doesn’t understand, he completely forgets about it as soon as he gets home. After all, he has a ravenous family to feed.

\---

It takes a month for Shirou to make a connection between Lancer “liking to see him” and his ever-changing jobs. Much to his embarrassment. He knows Fuyuki like he knows how to tie his shoes, and _still_ he never noticed the directions Lancer was taking to get here.

The “here” in question is Copenhagen, the location of one of Shirou’s many part-time jobs—and not a place he would’ve ever expected Lancer to show up at. It’s too tame. Lancer belongs in a forest under the stars, not in a lake of noise.

But here he is, wearing an apron patterned with cats just like Shirou’s, grinning at him like he expects a reward. And did he have to wear glasses? Because…well…he’s really…

 _No, no! Don’t think about that, idiot!_ Shaking his head, Shirou strides over and begins the ritual. “Lancer. Changed jobs again, huh?”

“Yeah, but I left on my own this time.” (Because he got what he wanted just by working down the street.)

“…I see.” Shirou sighs and rolls up his sleeves. “Well, I guess I’ll have to show you around—”

“—Maybe I got the wrong idea.”

Shirou pauses, his right sleeve still not up to his elbow. “Eh?” There was something about Lancer’s expression just now that was…very strange.

Lancer chuckles wryly and shakes his head. “Eh, never mind. So.” He tilts his glasses down, his gaze unwavering and warm. “What’s the first thing I need to know about this place?”

The room is stifling all of a sudden. And yet…why can’t Shirou look away?

“Well,” Shirou says, finishing rolling up his sleeves and hunting around for a menu, “I’d like it if we could work together for a long time.”

The words come out unconsciously, but he doesn’t take them back. They feel worth saying.

Metal _clicks_ as Lancer slides his glasses back into place. “Well, what d’you know! That’s what _I_ want too.”

…Shirou would like to understand this man one day. And if he can understand why Lancer’s words stir his heart, so much the better.


	2. Monday: Muramasa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Shimousa, Lancer meets a familiar face. At least, he sure _looks_ familiar...
> 
> Rating: T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muramasa and Lancer's speech patterns are eerily similar, which means making them distinct from each other is harder than you'd expect. ^^;

_I’ve seen this guy before,_ Lancer thinks, as the blacksmith with hair like fire sets another sheet of metal down on the forge.

Hell, the whole _room_ feels familiar, even though it shouldn’t: it’s cramped, yet comforting, and smells faintly of Magecraft. But there’s enough differences, like the thatched roof and stone chimney, to turn his memory to smoke. With Chaldea gently tugging him back from this strange dream that may not be, it’s no wonder he can’t think for beans.

Then the blacksmith turns around, and Lancer’s breath catches at seeing those sunset-orange eyes. It’s still hard to place _who_ they belong to, but they bring to mind running down moonlit hallways, searching for someone who shouldn’t be there. _Maybe we were enemies? Not that it matters now._

One thing is sure: the person Lancer's thinking of wasn't a Servant. _Who knows, my time on the field might be useful for once!_

Lancer bounces forward, dimly aware that this man is very polite—

—Just in time for the blacksmith to say “Piss off” with a look that could curdle a farmer’s whole store of milk.

On instinct Lancer slides into a defensive position, Gae Bolg shielding his vitals. “Whoa, now, just wait a minute! I’m a buddy of your guest—”

“—Which means you _aren’t_ my guest, idiot. So I'll tell you again: piss. Off." He sighs and scratches the back of his neck, like his skin is prickling. "And even if you were…something about you bothers me. And I’d rather trust my gut on these things.”

Well, now. This guy just gets stranger and stranger. _He_ looks _like a spring chicken, but really he’s just a grouchy old coot!_

Lancer knows not to bother an old man when he’s cranky (the King of Heroes never stops whining about his damned beauty sleep). “…Huh. Well, if you don’t want to fight or drink it out, guess that’s that.” He takes one step backward, then another. Fresh loam gives against his feet. “Oh, by the way: call me Lancer. What's your name?”

“Lancer…?” Slowly, the blacksmith presses his palm against his chest, his thick brows furrowed in what might be pain. Then he looks up, his expression placid as any of Erin’s lakes. “My name is…”

\---

“God _damn it_ ,” Lancer snarls as he materializes in Chaldea once again, without even a syllable to work with. “Why couldn’t you guys have waited five seconds?!”

“Is something wrong, Lancer?” Mash asks, her pale purple hair swaying slightly as she pokes her head around the stark-white doorway. “Senpai still hasn’t woken up. Is everything…okay?”

 _…Ah, that’s right. There are more important things to take care of._ Lancer tells Mash what little he knows about their Master's location and safety, all while wondering if he’ll ever get that blacksmith’s name…and wondering why there’s already one half-formed in the back of his head. 


	3. Tuesday: Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancer and Shirou spend a lazy (and erotic) birthday morning in.
> 
> Rating: M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you the pining would come to fruition! XD

“Seriously, Lancer,” Shirou groans, tugging at the very large (and admittedly comfortable) arm wrapped around his waist, “I need to get up. I _should_ have been up an hour ago…”

“Even on your birthday?” Lancer’s muffled words vibrate pleasantly against the nape of his neck. “That’s stupid.”

“Well, that’s just how things are done here, so”—Shirou grunts and wriggles in Lancer’s loose grip, somehow still not able to get free—“you’ll just have to celebrate my birthday later.”

Of course, Lancer isn’t the type to give up so easily. As he lifts his head, his unbound hair tickles Shirou’s cheek and shoulder. “But you didn’t want me to leave last night, and the sun isn’t even up yet. So…” His breath is pleasantly hot on Shirou’s ear. “…why get up?”

“W-Well…” That’s a tough question to answer. Especially with Lancer taking his sweet time showering him with kisses as hot as any spice.

“My offer still stands, by the way.” Lancer interrupts himself and suckles at Shirou’s earlobe (his already-weakened weak spot). “Today, your wish is my command, Master…”

For once in his life, Shirou has plenty of wishes in mind: he wishes to go make breakfast, for Lancer to stop teasing him, for Lancer to _keep_ teasing him, for this morning to never end. Unfortunately, he has to pick one.

With an affectionately-exasperated sigh, he rolls over so that he’s facing Lancer—or rather, Lancer’s broad, firm chest. “…If it’s okay…I want to kiss you too. Especially here.” _His nipples are almost as plump as peaches…or maybe I’m just hungry._

“Oho?” Lancer doesn’t waste any time: with surprising gentleness, he nudges Shirou forward, those crimson eyes of his radiating so much heat they burn up Shirou’s reason. “That’s more than fine by me. Here—while you’re busy, let me give you a ‘hand’…”

Shirou gasps around Lancer’s salty nipple as familiar fingers slip past the hem of his boxers and massage his shaft. _I better not be over as quickly as last night, or I’ll never be able to…to…_

A rich, earthy musk flows through his nose—Lancer’s scent. His head spins at the slightest whiff. Any thoughts he had are now gone, replaced only with free-floating, contented desire.

_…Yeah. Spending the day together is a better present than I thought._


	4. Wednesday: Uruz/Willpower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancer chases down a witness to the Holy Grail War, and finds the hunt better than most.
> 
> Rating: M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I didn't get the chance to post yesterday (had to choose between writing or college), today there will be two chapters to make up for it!

Lancer runs through the twisting, moon-shadowed maze of a school, his eyes peeled for a shock of red hair.

Anyone stupid enough to be out and about during a Grail War deserves what they get. That's expected. And yet, this scrawny little nobody _sensed_ him even from yards away. That’s nothing to sneeze at.

So Lancer lunges over yawning staircases and dashes past rows of lockers in a matter of heartbeats, his prey’s breathing loud as thunder in his ears. He’s wearing down now. The next hallway will see him cornered—

—Or not. Whether it’s luck or strength or both, the lad’s still flailing his way up _another_ flight of stairs.

 _Huh!_ Lancer’s lips pull back into an eager snarl. _Well how about that._

These days, only another Servant can make him work up a sweat; _maybe_ a Master on a good night. So for his prey to have him working for the chase…that’s pretty damn good.

Unfortunately, his Master’s orders mean he isn’t allowed to _work_ for his victory against this underdog. He just has to kill him and report back, like any errand boy. _Disgusting…_

Still, he’ll give the lad one final test: turning into Spirit Form in a ripple of mana, he flows up through the ceiling to another moonlit hallway. _Now to wait for my prey to arrive._

And he does, bronze eyes wide with terror, reeking of sweat, practically shaking with the belly-swooping rush of danger Lancer loves so much. It’s only when the lad finds himself alone that he stumbles forward and clutches a trembling hand to his chest. From behind, his back muscles shudder and flex as he sucks in air—they’re more prominent than expected, built like a squire’s. No _wonder_ he gave Lancer such a hunt!

It’s a shame he has to die.

“Yo,” Lancer calls out, and the lad whips about just in time for a noble skewering through the chest. Better than being stabbed in the back, for both their honor.

The lad looks down at Gae Bolg, expression awash in confusion and pain. He crumples like parchment, turning the pale white floor crimson with his own blood. _Why?_ he seems to ask, his blue-tipped fingers twitching as if to hold on to something precious. _Why did this happen to me?_

“Curse your own bad luck,” Lancer replies, even though he doesn’t need to. He’s used to life being unfair…but for some reason he doesn’t want to let this lad know that yet. Call it sentiment, or stupidity: no one else will know but this corpse.

The lad’s hand continues to jerk about. Searching, hoping.

That strange determination to keep going, even now—that’s something special. Something that _should_ have been worth preserving.

Maybe in another life, it was. 


	5. Thursday: Flower Language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lancer's attempt at flirting is thwarted by Shirou's denseness and harem protagonist ways.
> 
> Rating: T

Shirou blinks at the blue-ribboned bouquet of yellow roses in front of his face, then at Lancer’s expectant eyes. “Uh…Lancer…why are you giving me these?”

“’Cause they show you how I feel about you! According to my boss, that is.” Lancer puffs up with pride. “She knows so much about this flower lingo stuff, it’s awesome!”

“…Huh.” Shirou adjusts his grip on the bouquet, surprised that the dew decorating the delicately frilled petals are real and not plastic. “So what do these mean?”

“Friendship!”

Nobody else could say that with a straight face if the beginning of their friendship involved murder. But that’s what Shirou finds so fascinating about him. That and…other things. Things that Shirou doesn’t want to think about too hard or he’ll drop the roses.

“Thank you,” he says softly, holding them with even more care than before. “In that case, I should get you something too.” He has no idea what “flower language” is, but it can’t be that difficult. Right?

Even as he thinks that, he can’t deny that having Lancer watch him as avidly as he would a hooked fish is a bit…distracting. Still, he’s determined to prove himself just as clever and cool as Lancer, so he doesn’t let that bother him for long.

He pokes around the stand full of beautiful flower arrangements, admiring the musky-scented lilies and delicate fronds of ferns that poke out here and there among the arrangements. In truth, he doesn’t know many flowers by name or description—beyond ones that are edible or look good at dinner tables. _Still, I should be able to find_ something _that reminds me of him…_

After a few awkward moments of looking between Lancer, the flowers, and back, he finally picks out some creamy orange and red-tipped yellow roses and shuffles back over to present them. “…Here you go.”

Lancer tilts his head to one side like an owl considering a mouse. Or perhaps a god considering an offering. “Oho. You sure about those, lad?”

“All roses have good emotions attached to them, they’re _roses._ ”

“Well, yeah. But which ones?”

Shirou frowns down at his choice. “If yellow roses mean ‘friendship’, then the ones with red tips must mean something deeper.” His brows furrow. “The orange ones…remind me of you, somehow.”

Lancer puts his hands on his hips and grins so widely you’d think he caught a big one. “Yeah, I’d say I’m pretty passionate—”

“—Mm. But they’re also beautiful, like you.” It’s just the truth, simple as that.

“…Ah.” Lancer stumbles back as if struck by an invisible blow. “Damn it, it happened again…!”

“What did?” Shirou steps forward to get a better look at him; he looks flushed. Almost peaky. “Are you sick, Lancer?”

Lancer laughs it off, though his chuckle is shakier than usual. “Oh, nothing, nothing. I’ll take the flowers off your hands, though!”

They exchange bouquets, and Shirou wonders if Lancer’s fingers are always this warm and gentle. _Since that effected him so strongly, maybe I should look up what those roses mean when I get home. They could be useful…_

...When he does, he vows to never ask Lancer about the language of flowers again. It's much too embarrassing. 


	6. Friday: Reclass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gee Shirou, how come the Grail lets you have four Cus? 
> 
> Rating: T

“Your Servant, Lancer, has answered your call.”

That should have been the end of it. However…the Summoning Circle’s getting _way_ more crowded than Lancer likes.

“What? No way, _I’m_ Lancer,” says a wild-haired version of Lancer with more furred armor than he remembers owning. And a deeper voice as well, rugged and fierce.

“Caster here! Nice to meet you, Master,” says a druid with unbound, pale blue hair and an easygoing smile. At least _he_ sounds familiar.

Their Master’s gold eyes flick between them, uncertain. “Uh—there’s someone else…”

Lancer turns around just in time to see the moonlight blotted out by a hulking, _pointy_ version of him wearing even less clothes than usual, and…are those _claw-heels_ and a giant, spiky tail? Not bad. They look a bit hard to fight with, though.

“Berserker,” the hulking him says flatly, unimpressed with everyone and everything. Except their Master, who he looks at with almost feral curiosity. “I guess you’re worthy to summon me.”

Their Master stares at them all in confusion, still sitting sprawled on the floor. “Th-thank you, I think?” He lurches to his feet, thick red brows pinched in worry. “But you guys shouldn’t call me ‘Master’, it sounds strange. My name’s Shirou.”

They consider his name, and him, very carefully. “Pretty?” Lancer asks first.

“Pretty,” the Cus concur, each looking satisfied in their own way.

“Since there’s so many of us,” Caster says, not even hiding the hunger in his voice, “we’ll need _some_ way to stay here and protect you.”

“The mansion has plenty of rooms,” Shirou says, guileless as any maiden. He seems to be ignoring the part about protection. “And I should be able to cook for all of you.” A hint of excitement plays about his voice.

The fur-armored Lancer beams. “Really? Food sounds great!”

“I’ll take whatever,” Berserker says, his tail whisking very slightly.

Lancer nods. “It’s a good start.”

Only Caster frowns in disappointment. “Guess that was too subtle, huh.”

Maybe so—but between the five of them, surely they can work out something more…physical…later. And if not, well, he could do worse than a good meal from a charming cook.


	7. Saturday: Role-Juggling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of Reclass. Shirou has to get all these Cus mana _somehow_...is the mutual excuse. 
> 
> Rating: E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Yarishi Week is done! This was a lot of fun to work on, and thank you all for joining me. :D
> 
> (I know these fics were meant to be standalone, but in this case I had a good premise and ran with it. ^^;)

Shirou blinks at the four identical faces sitting beside him on the futon, wondering how it came to this.

That he summoned Heroic Spirits from the past to protect him made sense when Tohsaka explained it. Said Heroic Spirits somehow being the same person in different forms was harder to swallow—but they asked for third helpings at dinner, so he could look past that. And they needed mana, which is understandable. But even so, this is…very intense.

“Hey, Shirou, who d’you want to go first?” Lancer asks, brushing Shirou’s hair out of his eyes with the tips of his beautiful fingers.

To speak metaphorically, if cooking for the four Cus was a race against time, choosing which should drink blood from him first is like hiking up a mountain while facing backwards. In other words: impossible. He’ll still _do it_ , of course, but it will take some thought.

“Hmm…let’s go with who introduced themselves first.” In case they forgot, Shirou points from Lancer to Armored Lancer. “Is that alright?”

“Sure is,” Armored Lancer says—though his eyes narrow with impatience for Lancer to start.

Which Lancer does, leaning forward until his hot breath teases Shirou’s neck. “Mm…” His lips trace the path of the thick artery, and a delighted chuckle hums against Shirou’s flesh. “…Your pulse just skipped, y’know.”

“Of course I know,” Shirou snaps, conscious of Armored Lancer, Caster and Berserker’s hot crimson eyes on him. “J-Just start, already!”

No sooner does the order leave his mouth than his spine tingles with the strange sensation of canines rasping against delicate skin. _Stop teasing me! Or not so intensely…_ His pants are growing embarrassingly tight with each hot touch.

A heartbeat later Lancer sinks his teeth into him, his artery trembling and pulsing as blood gushes forth in offering.

“Gods, you smell so _good_ ,” Armored Lancer growls, and wastes no time in claiming the other side of Shirou’s neck. He doesn’t bother with teasing. Like a knife cleaving through butter, he bites down, his thick, wild hair tickling Shirou’s ear.

_Is that it?_ Shirou’s heart sinks at the thought. In the back of his head, he was expecting something more vampiric—

—And then the suckling begins.

The two Lancers gorge themselves like they’re dying of thirst, moaning shamelessly as soft, keening sounds pass Shirou’s lips. It seems they don’t mind if he doesn’t act “Masterly”. _Ah, but…Caster and Berserker need to drink too. But how?_

“Hey, don’t forget about us!” Caster says, as if sensing Shirou’s thoughts. He crawls forward, his huge, firm chest rubbing against Shirou’s belly. “Wow,” he purrs, and cups the tenting in his jeans with a warm hand, “I guess someone’s a fan…”

Berserker nods, the tip of his tail stroking Shirou’s trembling thigh. “We’ll take care of that.” His words might be professional—almost bored—but his ember-hot eyes say something else.

Shirou wants to protest for the sake of his pride, but what is pride to pleasure? He watches, lips parted in surprise, as Caster and Berserker ease his jeans past his knees and bend down over his waist, their breaths overlapping against his rapidly-soaking underwear.

“Ooh, the fabric is soft.” Caster’s cheek against his growing bulge is soft, too. As is his tongue, hot and sticky as it traces the trapped curve. “Tastes bitter, though!” His scrunched-up face is charmingly at odds with everything else about him.

“Then take it off, idiot,” Armored Lancer speaks up, before lapping up stray trickles of blood and turning Shirou’s mind to aroused jelly.

Berserker’s hood tickles Shirou’s waist as he very carefully laps at the hint of swelling tip just passing the waistband. “Get over here, Caster. This is… _mm_ …better.”

Shirou clutches at both Lancer’s backs uselessly, already overwhelmed by the delicious sensations surrounding him. Caster and Berserker’s eager tongues…the Lancers’ suckling mouths…the taut muscles playing under his palms…any rational thoughts are being swallowed up.

“You’re close, huh?” Lancer whispers in his burning ear. “That’s fine. Come whenever you want…”

_But I haven’t pleased you yet!_ He can’t help thinking that. If there’s something—anything—he can do to help someone, he will. That’s his payment for living. And yet…why won’t his hands move?

Then.

Pleasure washes over him, through him, his heart ready to burst as the adrenaline spirals up and up. In that sweet, tumultuous haze, he can see as if through gauze Caster and Berserker licking his belly clean; they hadn’t even taken his underwear off yet.

Before he can be embarrassed about that, though, he’s distracted by Lancer crawling down to join them. “Well done, lad…now let’s see if you can do that again!”

“A…gain…?” _Can_ he? His body seems to think so.

“Your mana’s definitely working,” Armored Lancer says, sitting up and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “So we don’t really nee— _ow_!”

“Don’t complicate things,” Berserker grumbles. “You in, Shirou?”

Shirou stares at his four lovers (they must be lovers, now), how they’re all patiently waiting for their orders. He may not like being called “Master”, but this attention feels…strangely good. And surely he’ll get the chance to please them too.

“I’m in” is his last coherent sentence for a long, long while.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :D Feedback is appreciated.


End file.
